


High Times and Red Vines

by slayer2003



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Divorced!Borgov, Drunk Driving, F/M, I'm not sorry, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking isn't cool anymore but it was in the '70s, Substance Abuse, They get high at a drive-in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29623800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slayer2003/pseuds/slayer2003
Summary: Beth and Borgov go to the drive-in.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	High Times and Red Vines

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, not too many redeeming qualities here. I just wanted to write something a little lighter and more fun as a reprieve from my other WIP which is quite angsty and a little emotionally exhausting to write. Hope you enjoy!

_Lexington, 1972._

When he first sees her from afar at the University of Kentucky where the tournament is taking place, she looks just fine, firmly in charge of organizing, a clipboard tucked under one arm while she points and commands her scurrying underlings with the other. It’s the warm height of summer, and she’s standing outside in an oversized pair of sunglasses and a her hair tied back with a silk scarf, her translucent skin looking at risk of burning.

It’s not until he sees her up close at the opening gala that he can tell something is wrong. She looks thinner than usual, eyes gaunt but face paradoxically puffy, a slight tremor in her hand. Maybe it’s just the stress of helping organize an Invitational here on her own home turf, but a small voice inside tells him it’s more than that, that she succumbed again to the bottle or the pills or whatever her vice of choice these days. He’s not one to judge; he comes from a culture that has a complex relationship with alcohol. But he didn’t come all this way, and at her behest no less, just for a repeat of Paris. Tensions between the US and USSR are not at an _all time_ high; it is _détente_ , after all, but here on her turf the KGB is still rammed so far up his ass he can’t even take a whisper of a shit without them knowing about it.

They are playing an exhibition match today, just for fun, World Champion (her) vs. former World Champion (him), prelude to a more serious match in a few days. She may be ahead in the rankings but he can still give her a run for her money. When she finally sits down in front of him to play he sees the dark circles under her eyes despite her bold eyeliner and the dangerous look that tells him not to ask. It’s striking how different she is when she’s this way; impetuous, impatient, callous, even a little cruel.

They play a book opening (Italian game; four knights) and then he quickly pulls ahead in material. Her play is sloppy, careless, making mistakes no Grandmaster worth their salt should ever make. His ire with her grows. At least in Paris she had been desperate; here, it seems like she just doesn’t care, and anyone who knows a thing about the game watching them can see it too.

In retaliation, he draws out her defeat, chasing her around the board before she can plausibly resign. If she wants to be humiliated, he is only too happy to oblige her. When she finally tips her king, he crosses his arms over his chest instead of extending his hand to shake. She nods at him, lips pursed, and doesn’t extend hers either. Then she turns on her boot heel and sweeps from the hall. If the game had been worth anything they would have both been penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct.

He doesn’t see her until later at the dinner, and she has nothing but daggers in her eyes for him, her lips pursed tightly as she ignores whoever is trying to engage her in conversation. He stays until the crowd thins out, shucks his jacket and nurses his glass of bourbon - hard to come by where he’s from. He doesn’t turn to look at her as she finally sidles up behind him, leaning back against the the long catering tables, a drink in her hand as well.

“You know, it’s not polite to play with your food,” she tells him, with some ire.

He sips his drink, still not looking at her. “You should have resigned,” he replies, in Russian.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks, cuttingly.

“My _ex-wife_ ,” he clarifies.

This seems to get her to dial down her attitude a minute amount. “Ah. Sorry.”

He shrugs. ”So it goes.”

“I guess this is a bad time to ask if you want to fuck, then.”

Now he does turn to look at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ll be in the ladies room.” Her look says _if you dare_. His eyes trace the curve of her ass as she walks away from him. It’s obviously not the first time he’s thought about sleeping with her; he _is_ a man, after all, and she’s always interacted with him in a way that says she’s thought about it too. He scans the room for his minders. They’re looking somewhat sullen and bored and he’s pretty sure he can make a quick bathroom trip without arousing any suspicions.

He finds her in front of the mirror, mouth open as she touches up her lipstick, and he can’t help but think of how good her heart-shaped mouth would look wrapped around his cock.

He locks the bathroom door behind him. “You disrespected me today. Everyone, really,” he tells her as he rolls up his sleeves. Her eyes follow the movement of his hands and then she watches his face in the mirror as he comes to stand behind her, hands either side of her on the counter, so close he can smell the floral scent of her hair and the alcohol on her breath.

“Whatever will we do with you, Miss Harmon?” he asks, sweeping her hair to the side and finding the spot where her neck and shoulder meet, that sweet spot that distracts him when they play and she tilts her head to the side, considering her next move. He lowers his lips to it and finds that reality is better than the fantasy, feels her shiver as his stubble scrapes across her skin. It’s so pale and delicate that it reddens immediately and all he can think is about leaving a red handprint on her ass. She grinds back into his crotch, eyes locked on his in the mirror.

“Just have to teach me a lesson, I guess,” she breathes, hands gripping the counter. He knows it’s a cliché but she delivers it with such conviction that the words send a jolt of desire through him. His dominant hand finds the button and zip of her skirt, fingers sliding into the lace of her underwear, a low hum issuing from his throat as he finds her already warm and wet for him.

“Yes,” she pants as he starts stroking her clit, her hand closing around his wrist to urge him on. It’s a filthy image in the mirror, his hand between her legs, her face contorted in pleasure, mouth open. She moans louder as he accelerates his movements and he shushes her, afraid someone will hear. “Please,” she manages, “I’m so close.”

That’s his signal. It takes all the willpower he has to deny himself the experience of seeing her come apart at his touch. But she asked for a lesson, and some part of him doesn’t want their first time to be in a dirty college bathroom, so he stills the movement of his hand before she can find her release.

“What the fuck?” she asks, whirling around. He brings his fingers, coated in her wetness, to his mouth, tasting her sweet cunt and wishing he could bury his face between her legs and feast properly.

He shrugs as he sucks her off his fingers. “Your lesson, Miss Harmon.”

“You are an _enormous_ asshole,” she tells him, her face red both from her arousal and her anger.

“I’ve been called worse,” he tells her. “You can finish what you started here. Maybe if you get yourself together we can pick up where we left off.” Then, without waiting to hear her response, he leaves her there, seething and a little desperate, and tells his handlers that this dinner has been dreadfully boring and to bring the car around.

* * *

The next day Beth seems marginally more collected; she only makes _one_ volunteer cry and can be seen drinking copious amounts of water. She still looks like she wants to punch him in the balls most of the time, but he’ll take it if it means she’s cleaning up her act.

Late in the afternoon he’s standing outside having a smoke, watching college students scurry to and fro, reminded vaguely of skipping class to light up behind his secondary school, though the charming Southern summer is not much like his drab Moscovite suburb.

“Can I have a light?” a voice sounds from beside him. There’s Beth, unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. Instead of taking his lighter out of his pocket, he leans into her and lights her smoke with his own.

“Have you forgiven me, then?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” she replies, but the corner of her mouth is quirked upwards.

They smoke in silence for a moment. “Do you want to go to the drive-in tonight?” she asks suddenly.

“The what?”

“A drive-in movie.”

He narrows his eyes at her, still not following. She sighs. “It’s a movie that’s played outdoors. You watch from inside your car and listen on the radio. Usually it’s just an excuse to neck.”

“To neck?” He was really learning a lot from this conversation.

“To kiss,” she explains, in Russian. “It’s a thing people do when they go on dates.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” he asks her mildly, looking bemused.

“Maybe.”

“Have you been drinking today?”

“I just got off the phone with my AA sponsor. Not that it’s any of your business,” she adds.

“I don’t think my… entourage would allow it.”

“Ditch them,” she says, like that’s a simple thing to do. “Sneak out at night. The movie’s at 10. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“Nuclear war between our two nations,” he says mildly.

She rolls her eyes. “We’re chess players. We’re not that important. Maybe only a minor international incident.”

He considers for a moment. First, smoking behind the school. Now, sneaking out at night. It’s all very high school. But he can’t help but be excited at the prospect.

“Well?” she asks.

“I’m not saying no,” he says slowly.

She smiles, the first genuine smile he has seen since he got here, and for a moment she looks like her old self, relaxed and poised and confident. “I’ll pick you up at 9:30 behind your hotel. Can you drive?”

“Of course,” he says, “Why?”

“I don’t. Don’t worry, I’ll bring a car.” Then, she stomps out her cigarette and leaves, and he wonders what on earth he’s gotten himself into.

* * *

At precisely 9:25 he leaves his room. He didn’t exactly bring casual clothes, so he just leaves his suit jacket behind and undoes the top button of his dress shirt for what he hopes is a more casual look. Fortunately, decades of good behaviour has meant that his KGB escort doesn’t keep sentry watch over his hotel room at night, though they typically still follow him around on outings. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want some loose-lipped concierge saying anything about how Grandmaster Borgov was sneaking out at night, so he studies the emergency exit map posted by the elevators on his floor for another way out. Fortunately, there is one at the bottom of the main stairwell, so he takes the stairs all the way down, feeling only a little out of breath by the time he gets to the bottom.

He pushes the door open to the back alley and glances around, hoping to god that she was already there. “Over here!” A voice calls. Beth is hanging out the passenger side of a garish mustard Ford Pinto with a dark-haired man that Borgov vaguely recognizes as a reporter.

Not for the first time that night, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into, which shade midlife crisis is driving him to act out this way. Nevertheless, he approaches.

“Borgov, Townes; Townes, Borgov,” Beth says, nodding to each of them. “Townes is supplying our ride for the evening.”

Borgov raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Townes says, “I’m not third wheeling. I’ll take the bus home. Just make sure you bring my car and my girl back in one piece.”

_Third wheeling_. He files that one away along with “drive-in” and “necking”. "If your car explodes it won't be my fault," he tells Townes, referencing the Pinto's recently publicized and unfortunate propensity to do just that.

Townes kisses Beth on the cheek. “Be good,” he tells her, handing her the keys, and then walks off, winking at Borgov as he goes.

“Get in,” Beth calls to him through the open window, patting the driver’s seat. He complies.

“Your boyfriend?” He asks, fitting the key in the ignition, only the faintest hint of jealousy tickling his insides.

“Just an old friend,” she says. “I promised him he could get an exclusive interview with you in exchange for the car, though, so, sorry about that.”

He sighs. “Where are we going?”

She gives him directions to the drive-in lot. She shells out two-fifty for their tickets and a package of artificial-looking red licorice. It’s a weeknight and a late showing, so the film is _Psycho_ and there are fortunately not too many cars in attendance, which means they can park reasonably far away from anyone else. He’s also grateful for the car’s slightly tinted windows and their ability to conceal whatever depravity is sure to follow. Beth tunes the radio to the correct station, but she doesn’t turn the volume up very loud. She kicks off her loafers and makes herself comfortable and opens the package of candy and Borgov wonders what on earth he’s supposed to be doing.

“You know, I promised Georgi I would take him to a drive-in movie. I feel a little bad that I took you instead,” she tells him.

“You’re too old for him,” he replies, deadpan. She snorts.

She rummages through her purse and takes out what looks like a hand-rolled cigarette but he soon realizes from the scent emanating is actually a joint. “It’s better than drinking,” she says, seeing the dubious look he casts at her. “You smoke?” She tips the joint in his direction.

“It’s been a long time.”

“You want to?”

He considers for a moment and then reaches into his pocket for his pack of matches. He can add it to his catalogue of sins tonight.

He lights it for her and she takes a drag and then passes it to him. He inhales, feeling the telltale tickle in his windpipe. It makes him cough a little and she giggles at him. They pass it back and forth a few more times until she offers it to him again and he declines. “I have to drive you.”

They watch the film for a little while, Borgov suddenly finding that time is both going very fast and very slow. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, leaning into the feeling and letting it relax him. It’s exhausting being so buttoned up at foreign tournaments, especially here on American soil where he has to be on his best behaviour.

This is certainly not his best behaviour.

A few minutes later he feels hungry (and curious) and reaches over to take one of Beth’s Red Vines. He takes a bite and makes a face. “Disgusting.” She rolls her eyes at him. He eats it anyway.

They watch the movie, and Beth remains unaffected and even giggles a little when Marion Crane is brutally murdered in the shower. He knows what’s going to happen and but he still finds the scene unsettling in his altered state and has to close his eyes for a moment.

He feels a hand slide under his and realizes he’s been gripping his thigh. “You ok?” she asks, forcing him to relax his fingers.

“Fine,” he tells her, mastering himself. He looks down to see her hand curled in his and wonders if it feels this good because he’s high or because Elizabeth Harmon is holding his hand.

He turns to look at her, sees the movie flickering in her irises as she gazes back at him. Then he has the absurd thought that it’s odd that he’s tasted her pussy before he’s even kissed her, so he leans over and presses his lips to hers, just once, chastely. She stares at him for a moment and he’s a little worried she’ll slap him, but then she closes the gap between them again, one hand grabbing his collar. This time her mouth opens under his, tongue candy-sweet and slick, and his hand tangles in her hair and all of his senses are overwhelmed by her and her floral perfume and her jugular vein beating at the base of his palm.

They break apart for breath, her cheek still cradled in his hand. Then they kiss again, his mouth finding her throat and his hand caressing the curve of her breast over her summery blouse. “Are we necking?” he murmurs into her throat.

She laughs. “I’d say so. Let me also introduce you to third base.” He has no idea what she's talking about and wants to ask but then he feels the hand that was holding his slide down over his crotch where his cock is tented painfully under his slacks, and he forgets the notion altogether. He groans as she undoes his zipper and reaches in to free him from the confines of his underwear. He can’t look away as the graceful fingers with the crimson nails that he has been watching at the chess board for the last six years find new employment.

“What are you - “ he asks and she’s leaning over and replacing her hands with her mouth and he has to lift his elbows a little to give her space. He groans and lets his head roll back, one hand relaxing onto the base of her neck as she laps at the head of his cock. He lets out a string of profanities in his mother tongue as she starts to suck in earnest, her hand worming its way deeper under his clothes to massage his balls.

He groans and tugs her hair lightly. “My darling, if you want me to fuck you later, you’re going to have to stop that.” It’s been a very long time since he’s worried about coming too early. Reluctantly, with an obscene pop from her mouth, she lifts her head, hair falling in her eyes. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to get at the worst of her smudged lipstick.

They look up and the credits are rolling. For the second time that day, she asks, “Can you drive?” though she means something entirely different this time around.

“Yes,” he says. “The hotel?”

“No,” she tells him. “My place.”

He’s surprised. The hotel is certainly more practical; less sneaking around for him and a more plausible place for her to be caught in the morning. But now she is inviting him somewhere much more dangerous. He feels oddly nervous.

“Tell me the way.”

Her home is not far; the roads built in concentric circles around the centre of town make him feel like they’re not really going anywhere, but it must be a few miles. He stops where she tells him and takes in the powder blue home with its Grecian columns, idyllic, suburban, like something out of a contraband American magazine that his wife used to read. The lights are on in the house next door and he catches someone quickly drawing the living room curtains out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, that’s just Mrs. Greling. She must think I’m quite the harlot bringing different men home at all times of night.”

He smiles. “Aren’t you?” he asks, teasing.

“Yes,” she says, completely serious, and unlocks the front door. He steps in and looks around, taking in her home, feeling privileged that she’s let him into her inner sanctum. He sees touches of more modern decor that are obviously hers and others that are obviously not, like the piano sitting in the living room window (her late mother’s, he presumes), and an old-fashioned looking floral-print sofa. She puts down her purse and offers her his hand and it feels like a conciliatory gesture, the closest he’ll get to an apology for her play yesterday. He takes it and she leads him up the stairs to her bedroom. He tries to commit every detail to memory, from the shape of the perfume bottle on her vanity to the rumpled clothing thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair.

She closes the door behind them and steps into his space, her fingers slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt, stopping to press soft kisses to the skin she reveals. He lets her push his shirt over his shoulders, though he makes a show of hanging it carefully. When he’s done he does the same to her, undoing her blouse and her bra and letting his fingers trail softly down the bare skin of her back, making her shiver. The mood suddenly feels very different from a dirty bathroom fuck, softer, dangerously intimate. He tries not to dwell on it and pushes her back down onto her bed and pulls her skirt down her legs. She lifts her hips and pulls down her own underwear and suddenly she is spread beneath him gloriously naked, all full breasts and porcelain skin and a fiery tuft of hair between her legs.

He lowers his mouth to a nipple and rolls the other gently between his thumb and index finger. “Harder,” she breathes, and he obliges her, pinching and nipping roughly until she yelps, no longer needing to be quiet for fear of discovery. Then he travels further down her body, fully intending to finish what he started yesterday. He spreads the lips of her cunt delicately with his fingers, taking in the sight of her slick slit and the engorged pearl of her clitoris, her labia swollen with arousal. Then he dips a finger into her wetness to lubricate his finger and traces it around her hole, teasing, kissing, nipping at the inside of her thighs, doing everything but touching her where she wants it most.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, trying to push his head down, but he resists her. “Do you want something?” he asks.

“You know what I want.”

“You’ll have to ask for it,” he murmurs.

Her fingers tighten painfully in his hair. “Lick me,” she commands.

“Ask nicely.” He delights in pushing her, knowing she is in too deep to back out now.

“Make me come, please,” she says, finally, sounding more desperate than sincere. It’s all he needs to suck her clit in his mouth and rejoice in the buck of her hips and her loud cry. He slips two fingers into her to help her along and it’s not long until she’s calling his name (Vasya) and coming undone. The sight only stokes his desire further and he’s undoing his belt and kicking off his pants, no longer caring about wrinkles.

Come down from her orgasm, she rolls onto her stomach and waves her ass in the air enticingly at him. “Take me,” she says plainly, this time without bluster, only honest desire.

He rises onto his knees and uses his hand to line up his cock at her entrance, pushing inside carefully. The groan in tandem. “Fuck,” he curses, “You are so _tight_.” He wonders if it’s been some time for her too. She gasps and squirms against him. Once he is fully sheathed in her, she rises up off of her hands to press her arched back into his chest and to kiss him open-mouthed and dirty over her shoulder. She relaxes quickly as he starts to move, her increasingly lubricated pussy welcoming him. His hand finds her clit again and he strokes it in time with his thrusts, feeling the spot where they’re joined. She comes again with another loud cry and he finds he can no longer maintain the challenging angle at which they’re fucking, so he pushes her back down onto her hands and knees as thrusts into her roughly, finally focusing on chasing his own orgasm rather than facilitating hers. It doesn’t take long. His thrusts become erratic, hit a little too deep as he comes, and she yelps and collapses under him, and he follows her down, pinning her panting body under his own.

The lie like that for a moment, both catching their breaths, and then he rolls off of her. “Smoke?” he asks, boneless.

She reaches over lazily and swipes a pack off her bedside table, lighting one for them. They smoke in companionable silence for a moment.

“I should go,” he says finally, assuming she’ll want him to leave.

She turns to look at him, an iota of hurt in her eyes. He backpedals a little. “Or we can set your alarm for just before dawn, and I can go back to the hotel then. Whichever you prefer.”

She reaches out and takes his hand. “Stay,” she tells him.

So he does.


End file.
